#TBT our trip to Spain in 2008, before we had kids.We had time to fondle genitalia graffiti. And wait for a table. And do stuff “just for fun” without calculating how much more we’d have to spend on childcare.I look back to trips like this and think, wait, what did we do with the kids? Oh, right! They weren’t born yet.

Remember when you had free time? Me neither. I often wish I'd known how precious that time was. I wish I'd appreciated it more, or been more "productive" with it. But then I look back on times like these and decide I'm glad I didn't know.

RIP, blissful ignorance.

Well, iPhone photo quality's improved a lot since then. We'll have to return to Barcelona some day with our kids and take sharper dick pics. #Dreambig

I wrote a blog post about my thighs. I hated it. I added lots of disclaimers, checking my privilege and mentioning "bigger issues in the world."

I still hated it.

I'd felt I made progress because I hadn't thought about my thips in a long time, and didn't give a shit anymore, becauseA) I'm more self-accepting.B) There are bigger things to worry about in the world, and who has time to give a f*ck about thips?

Here's what I'm thinking now:A) If I'm more self-accepting, why did I feel the need for all the disclaimers? Great, I'm not judging my body anymore. Now I've replaced my self-judgment about my body with self-judgment about my privilege.

B) If there are bigger problems in the world, why am I focusing on my thips in the first place? I appreciate all the big butt songs. It's a step, but whether we're saying it's too big or awesomely big, WE'RE STILL FOCUSING ON WOMEN'S BODIES.

Here's some of the original post, with commentary:

Yes, there are bigger problems in the world and I don’t blame you if you’d rather read about Russian cover-ups than my swimsuit cover-ups. (That was my attempt at a disclaimer. Way to get people to want to waste time reading this.)

But if you wanna digest some Sheltered-Manhattanite-turned-wanna-be-woke-Silverlaker nonfiction, I'll feed you a snack: (Could I be more self-deprecating?)

From a remarkably early age, I hated my thighs. It was really the whole thigh-hip-butt area I wanted to “disown,” as the self-helpers say. I had “thips,” as the self-deprecators say.

I wasn’t overweight and my thips weren’t huge. They just seemed out of proportion to the rest of my body, especially if I tried to wear Jordache or Calvin Klein. All the good jeans that made you kool-in-kindergarden (It was that early!) were either too tight in the hips or too big in the waist. And this was before any Kardashians or Beyoncé. (Details and references from the past and present. Barf.)

I wish I’d had the foresight to say to myself “just wait 20 to 30 years. You’ve got thips before they’re cool. Not to mention, you will have more important things to worry about. And a mom pooch.” (See, I make a joke but it's still pointing out another body part.)

I wore a uniform when I switched to a WASPy all-girls' school, but the upper east side thighs there were even skinnier than jewesses' at my elementary school. Especially in P.E., where the uniform included little shorts, but you could still wear your tiny bloomers from lower school if you wanted to. (Is this all boring and sad?)

I’m sure girls who were actually overweight wanted to kick my not-so-fat ass when they heard me complain about my body. But this was seriously an issue for me. (There's my "inner judge" wanting to kick my own ass.)

In high school there would be the occasional weekend away (with boys!) at someone's friend's parents' Hampton's house where the parents were away and it wasn't clear who was supposed to be in charge of us. Was it the housekeeper? The guy staying in the pool house? (This has nothing to do with the point of the post.)

I already checked my privilege. Let whoever owned that house check his privilege. Never mind, he's probably in jail. Or Washington. (This is an attempt at a joke while also "checking my privilege.")

Point is, I dreaded the swimming portion. It was ridiculous. I’d quickly remove my thip-cover -- shorts or sarong, place a towel close to where I was going to exit the water, and jump in. Then, when I got out, I’d pray nobody saw my thips before I immediately covered them up. I’d be like “Brrrr...I’m cold! Thank god there’s a towel right here!”

That was my sleek move.

After college I dated a guy who was born a white Jew from the upper west side but hung out with a group of kids from “PR” and spoke with a Puerto Rican accent. When I found out we grew up four blocks from each other and knew a lot of the same kids, I said, “I can’t believe we never met.” And he said, “Why would we have met? You and me -- we from two different worlds.” (This really happened. Not sure if it fits with my point but I can't mention him without mentioning that story.)

I was kind of offended. I knew he thought "his world" was cooler than mine. Also, WE WERE FROM THE SAME F*CKIN' WORLD OF WHITE PRIVILEGED KIDS WHO EITHER HATED THEIR BODIES OR HATED THEMSELVES FOR BEING WHITE AND PRIVILEGED. (Oh, maybe this is what my point is. Ok.)

The PR culture he’d adopted had a more celebrate-yourself attitude. He once told me that he’d told his friends about me -- specifically, that I had “nice, thick thighs.”​I was horrified. Not because he was focused on my body instead of my feminist brain. All I could hear was “thick thighs.” It didn’t occur to me that “thick thighs” could be “nice.” (I think I was actually uncomfortable that he was talking about my body to them, but I'm just realizing this now.)

I was really bummed. If "his world" was about acceptance and being who you are, my world was about picking things to hate about myself.

Now I really wish I could go back and say to my young self: YOU ARE NOT YOUR BODY.WHETHER YOU LIKE YOUR THIPS/ASS/TITS OR HATE THEM, STOP IDENTIFYING YOURSELF BY THEM.

"Shake whatcha mama gave ya."That shouldn't be just about body parts.Let's celebrate what other people have, but also do the best with what we got.In other words, "DON'T FRONT." (Here's the point. Whether it's your butt or your background, don't try to cover up what you are -- it makes it seem wrong. Don't make it wrong.)

I'm not sure whether I'll edit this again. I hope not. "It's time to move on to bigger issues in the world."

If you know me (or happened to read my posts from HALLOWEEN PASTS), you know how obsessive I can get about costumes. All my neuroses and parenting fails find their home at Halloween. But I like to think I’m learning to mellow out as a mom and let my kids do their thing (while I bite my tongue and say to myself over and over “it’s just a costume. It’s not a reflection of you as their mother.”) Here's a pic from last year, when I took a deep breath and agreed to Samson's firefighter costume.

Eventhough his was mostly store-bought, I got to be original and creative (read: obsessive-compulsive) with the rest of our attire...Is everybody on Pinterest as cray-cray as I am?

(In case you're wondering, Elena was an old lady rescued from a burning building. Rob was a fire station pole-- not a paint huffer as his friend Lou mistakenly thought.)Anyway, you can imagine all my “opportunities for learning” this season when Samson wanted to be a cop (not a good year for those), and Elena said she wanted to be Elsa from Frozen.

My wannabe-progressive Silverlake mom self was horrified. First of all, cops and guns have been an issue in our house (a topic for another blog post). And Elsa?! Aside from being a Disney Princess/Queen-with an unattainable body, it’s the MOST unoriginal costume you can pick. She even has her own drinking game!

I’ll admit, at first I did try to convince my kids to pick more unique, less gender-obvious choices. How 'bout the feminist bookstore chicks from Portlandia? Or some fuzzy animals? Hey! We could all be the cast of Facts Of Life (my dream costume, when we all get a little bigger).

But what I’ve learned from Halloweens past, and parenting in general, is you gotta (sing it, Elsa...) LET IT GO.

Well, I did. I let it go. I knew the kids would be happiest wearing what they chose. The cold never bothered me anyway.

Besides, this way was easier. We already had their costumes! Can’t pass that up. My M-I-L had sent us an Elsa dress, and Samson has a jr. police uniform he puts on every now and then, just in case he gets called in on a case.

It’s liberating to have the costumes checked off the list.

At least, for the kids.

I decided, I can’t control what they wear, but I can control myself. And my husband.

Mama Po Po and Rob-Elsa were conceived.

So even though the kids’ costumes were done, it’s not Halloween without my traditional neurotic scramble to construct the perfect costume(s). I funneled all that “creative energy” (aka Crazy Momsterness) into my own police uniform and Rob’s grown-man Elsa costume.

I won't get into all the slutty options they have for lady cops, or how Elena knocked over a dirty old porcelain sink at Out of the Closet as I madly searched for an authentic badge (Turns out, they're illegal. Impersonating a cop, blah, blah, blah. I ended up making my own out of construction paper).

The lunacy really came out when I got into Rob's costume. I'll just give you a recap of my lowest moment:

I’m standing in line at Jo-Ann (the fabric and crafts store), waiting to have some teal chiffon measured to make Rob’s cape. (No doubt everyone else in line is making costumes for their children, not their husbands). I’m intent on creating an outfit as similar to Elena’s as possible. Why should she have a removable cape and Rob shouldn’t? That wouldn’t be fair.

It's taking a while and I realize everyone has numbers like at a meat counter. I pull number 07. They were only on 78. I debate whether Rob needs the cape. I have precious alone time two days before Halloween and I’m wasting it at Jo-Ann, one of the most stressful/depressing places one could be this time of year, second only to Michaels. But the cape is important. Who is Elsa without that cape?

The numbers move really slowly. Stupid Jo-Ann is just not set up for the Halloween rush.

I wonder if Jo-Ann has the same political views as Hobby Lobby. Ooh, Hobby Lobby would've been a good costume this year! Coulda woulda shoulda...

I go through the usual time-money debate in my head. Maybe it’s not so bad to get more fabric than I need if it means I can get out of here sooner. kid-free mom-time is gold. I ask if I can just buy the entire bundle without waiting to have it cut. No, they have to measure it to price it out, even if you're buying the whole 9 yards (literally).

I honestly consider stealing the fabric. Or taking it but throwing down $20 and running out the door. But what if I get caught, and have to admit I needed the fabric for an Elsa costume FOR MY HUSBAND!

Ok, this is crazy. I’m leaving. I put down the fabric, purchase the t-shirt, tiaras (one dollar!) and puffy paint I already collected, and walk out to the car. I’m Letting it Go.

Whatever, he can still be Elsa with the wig and tiara, the snowflake tee, and the giant satin skirt I got at Goodwill (lucky find! The Universe really stepped in there.)

I get into my car, turn on the ignition. Stop. Turn it off. I Realize they might be close to my number by now, or at least rounding 100 and beginning again at 00. A fresh start. The cape will make the costume. The cape is the COMEDY.

I go back in the store. They are at 103! I’m close! My fabric is right where I left it, in the aisle with the wood glue and pom poms.

Hurray! Elsa will be complete. I just need some sticky velcro to attach it. Good thing I’m at Jo-Ann! Gotta love Jo-Ann!

Well, if you saw any of my Facebook pics, you’d know the costumes were a success. (Rob is trending). And we-- I mean the kids-- got lots of candy. Arendelle lives on!

Ferocious MOMster can retire. Till next year...

P.S. Can we all agree? My husband is a sport. For the costume yes, but also for putting up with me in general. God Bless him.

If you've made it this far, why not add a comment? How many Elsas came to your door? How many of them were grown men?

Welcome to my new blog!Actually, it's my good ol' blog, with its new home on my new website! I figure it’s worth a new blog post.It’s been exactly four years since I started this blog (on the old site). A few things have changed since then, including the addition of our beautiful daughter, Elena. Samson’s now four-and-a-half, and Elena’s two.Since my first blog post in 2010, I’ve learned a few things about motherhood. Here’s a taste, a poo-poo platter of mom lessons, if you will...﻿﻿Having two kids is more than twice as hard as one...unless they’re playing together, in which case it’s half as hard...until they start fighting in which case I give up.﻿﻿I posted this on FB, but it bears repeating: Mo﻿therhood is being happiest when your loved ones are having fun without you. Motherhood is also having cute shoes that you never wear. The one time you might wear your cute shoes is on “ladies’ night,” which you really look forward to once you have kids--maybe even more than date night. (Sorry, Rob.) Girlfriends need to kick back with their sauvignon blanc, yo!Children don’t potty train themselves. I’ve looked everywhere, and there is no “laissez faire” method.It’s true that when you have kids, your “priorities change,” but you still obsess over stupid shit like what kind of throw pillows to buy.A project (or blog post) should not wait till you have time to make it “thorough” or “complete.” Do what you can, watch The Good Wife, and go to bed. (Nobody’s reading your entire blog posts anyway.)Most moms DO care what other people think, but it looks like we don’t because we don’t have time to groom.

Don’t buy your kids things they’re into in the moment. What they like will change before you even bring it home. The older they get, the more quickly their tastes change. So there’s no predicting how long they’ll be into something, because that’s constantly shifting. Best thing to do is find out what their best friend’s older sibling is into and buy that.

Cooking anything good is a waste of your time. It will only get eaten by your spouse and he’s too tired to pay attention.

Whatever you say relating to parenting or motherhood makes you sound like a mom.

Speaking of sounding like a mom, "I'd love to hear from you!" What have YOU learned? Holla back in the comments. Or, if you don't have time, just Like, Tweet, Retweet, what have you...

Join the mailing list!

Author

Marian Belgray's an L.A.-based standup comic and writer/producer who's contributed to HBO, Cinemax, Nickmom, Comedy Central, Pampers, Funny or Die, and ​Parents.com, with articles and comedy videos.Marian’s performed at clubs around Los Angeles, including The Comedy Store, The Improv, IOWest, UCB, The Virgil, and Akbar. She's the creator and host of CUFirstTuesday, a comedy show the first Tuesday of every month in Silverlake, and a certified writer for Comedywire. She posts about her thoughts and biznatch here and on social media. She hopes you appreciate it.You can follow her here: